Vitaï Lampada

There's a breathless hush in the Close to-night—Ten to make and the match to win—A bumping pitch and a blinding light,An hour to play and the last man in.And it's not for the sake of a ribboned coat,Or the selfish hope of a season's fame,But his captain's hand on his shoulder smote'Play up! play up! and play the game! '

The sand of the desert is sodden red,—Red with the wreck of a square that broke; —The Gatling's jammed and the Colonel dead,And the regiment blind with dust and smoke.The river of death has brimmed his banks,And England's ...